A grim return

Dear cousin,

What a time this has been! Heartfelt apologies for causing any perturbation.

As I so briefly mentioned via short missive, Watford and I had taken an extremely promising rubbing from one of the island's multitudinous petroglyths, this one most fortuitously found a short stroll up the west coast from Orongo (pleasing Watty no end – he had only just begun to grumble when we stumbled upon it). As you can imagine, I was near stupefied when, true to our coz's memory, the stone indeed depicted my device, and displayed in astonishing detail each of its component parts – a veritable blueprint! We of course proceeded to spent the better part of the day meticulously capturing our find and returned to the Club in exceptionally high spirits.

Later that night we were enjoying a light repast and sipping on our daily ration of Lumi (Oh woe the Lumi!) when a fierce commotion on the veranda drew our attention. Watford had been regaling me with a rather risqué tale of his summer some years ago in Dubrovnik, and it was thus some time before the noise penetrated our merriment and caused us to wander over to see what the excitement was about.

Standing on the veranda were a group of natives clothed in traditional garb. The central one – the one causing the commotion – was clothed in bright yellow and wore a headdress representing an impressive cross section of the local bird life. He was throwing his arms about and warbling in a most bewildering fashion, to the great entertainment of we onlookers. One of his compatriots was making effort to translate these carryings on to Sir Terrance MacWitnitney, the rather conniption-prone proprietor of the Lo Horongo Gorongo. Sir Terry was shaking his head firmly in the negative when the yellow clad savage looked up from his squawking and espied Watty and I standing in the doorway clutching our glasses of Lumi. Upon which he let out an almighty yodel and signaled his fellows, who paused not for a heartbeat before striding up to me, politely removing the glass from my hand and placing it in Watford's (oh if only I could go back to that moment...) and removing me bodily from the veranda and the environs of the Club.

You can be sure that I made the most clamorous commotion I could. However with the only colonials on the island still standing aghast and apparently paralysed on the veranda, there was nobody to heed my cries. The savage who had spoken with Sir Terry made quick to assure me that naught was amiss and that all would soon be explained, which indeed it was.

It appears that the savage in yellow was some kind of prophet – my guide called the fellow Ivi-Attuas, though whether that is his name or title is still something of a mystery. It appears that I had popped into this fellow's head in a one of his dreams, in the unlikely role as a participant in their annual Tangata manu ritual. I was of course sincerely honoured, and happily allowed myself to be ensconced with my fellow contestants in the most charming of temporary habitations. My translator, Tongorongo (capital fellow, splendid card sharp to boot!), explained that on the following morning I would proceed with my fellow contestants to the line up of the strongest young village lads, and there I would select my Hopu, who would then proceed to swim to the nearby islet of Motu Nui to collect the first manu tara egg of the season (sooty tern to us, old man). With egg secured, he is then to swim back and climb up that vertiginous cliff all the way up to Orongo! Should I receive my egg first and intact, I would be crowned Tangata manu – the year's Bird Man, and have glories heaped upon me, and my clan would win sole rights to collect the season's eggs and fledglings from Motu Nui. (they had decided that since the Club fell within Ohaurongo territory, they would claim me for the duration of this tourney).

The day began bright and early with me selecting a vigorous-looking chap named Strongo, over six feet of fine muscle with strong arms for swimming and long toes for climbing. I sent him off with some heartfelt words of encouragement, and took a moment to share reminiscences of swimming the triathlon at Oxford during our student days before sending him on his way. We watched as our Hopu's swam into the distance before retiring to our tent for breakfast, where we were entertained by a group of the most delightfully nubile young ladies I have yet to clap eyes on. Where had they been hiding, eh?! Thusly fortified and feeling particularly exhilarated, we retired outwith to the sun to await word of how our lads were faring.

Sad tidings saw portly Hungaronga out of the race almost immediately with his Hopu not expeditious enough to outswim the sharks teeming between the islands. All was not lost however, as I saw old Hunga being led into a tent by one of the young beauties, and realised that even the losers in this race do in fact receive some small reward. My joviality did not last long as grim stories began to reach our ears, and I realised exactly how trepidatious this contest was. Of the 12 who swam out, only 4 returned, and of the 4, only 2 were fully limbed. It was a grim tale of a desperate battle against sea and shark and precipitous cliff, of violent eddies and treacherous tides, of teeth and blood and bone and stone. In the end, Strongo was the first to reach Orongo, his brother Folongo coming a close second only because he was tied to Strongo's back, a leg shorter but alive.

Strongo strode up to where I stood among my remaining companions and presented the egg to me and as you can imagine great rejoicing then ensued. I was clothed all in feathers and spent the evening drinking and dining with the island's chiefs and notables. I was highly titillated to discover not one but all the nubiles in my tent upon my return, and it was some days before I could bring myself to leave. And leave the tent I did, but I confess I did not go far. Ah cousin, too many years had I spent with the sensible girls of our acquaintance, who while certainly partial to the odd dalliance, do not exude for me the raw vitality, the unadulterated earthy ebullience displayed by these 12 young sirens. It is true that several times I thought of leaving, and even went so far as to don my breeches on a number of occasions, but always there was more delightful food, drink and spirited companionship.

This I confess to my deep regret and shame, for while I enjoyed myself exploring the pleasures of sweet young flesh, one who is dear to us both was suffering, and it is upon hearing word of this that I was finally able to sever my intoxicating attachment to my nymphs.

Oh cousin – the Lumi! The shame I feel on remembering the native placing the glass of Lumi in Watford's hand. I see him even now, his small puzzled eyes watching me being carried away, and then shifting, refocussing on the two glasses of Lumi in his hands. I see him smiling, bemused as he lifted my glass to his lips. But I remembered too late! Oh cousin, the most egregious addiction has befallen our dear Watford, and by the time I returned the Lumi was gone – quite gone! Now I know not what to do. He is quite wasted away – you would not know him. He barely acknowledges anyone – only lies in his bed and murmurs Lumi Lumi all his waking hours. I can only but pray that your experience with the substance will assist us with combating its dastardly effects! In the meantime I have sent to our nearest Chapter House for a metaphysician and psychobabulist, but know not if they will be able to help. Cousin, you may be our only hope!

Yours in grim melancholy,
Cedric

Anxious Askance

Dear Boy,

I have become increasingly concerned for your welfare - those megalithic sites abound with esurient, sibylline entities and your silence is most unlike your usual dicacity and more akin to Sotty Wilkins, poor aglossal chap. Continuing, as you are, to be incommunicado for a surely morological duration, I have been considering alerting Les Soeurs Dépaysées, for only those canny ladies might contact you where others cannot go.

I am investing more then the usual fare to the Thrombatist so this message may travel by ultra-retrometer in all good haste.

I remain in a kedogenous attitude, until your response,
Wilbur

Wagers and Warnings

My Dear Cedric,

Please forgive my rather unusual silence, for as you should know, given as I am to fits of solitary sojourns, I found myself somewhat absquatulated in the darkest of reaches where even the greater thrombat’s long arms do not extend. Therefore you will be most heartened to know that I have succeeded in procuring a fine specimen from the Harticaria Bicephalus Furgulens phenotype. I am all come over with the delightful notion that I may be the first among the Brethren of the Splendid Chalice to return to our blessed isle with such a beast! I attach a hurried sketch:

Indeed, I shall anticipate an most excellently prepared repast from Rodder’s own hand (though I expect if shall be wretched Gilpy’s) when I encounter the scoundrels again. It is not before time that those two miscreants bow to others’ abilities and pay a contrite apology to those (and they are many) they have thoughlessly offended for their own amusement.

How glad I am to hear that dear Watty is with you! To own the truth, I was becoming fearful that the chap was more chirkful when he was dining that when he was engaged in scientiferous contrafabulations. Yet your words have quickened my cheer, for it seems our dear cousin has provided you with useful experience and knowledge instead of his more common appetite for one’s larder. Perhaps he may draw you towards the properties of the device with a heavy handed touch, yet his mind is agile and his wit rapier-like. I should listen closely to his advisements, for it is likely he may know more than he himself believes. I advise no more than half a decanter of Lumi for our dear gentleman before he engages again with your fragile device, for it has been brought to my attention that more then a quart’s consumption of the liquid may render one as a cocked hat!

Thankfully I have not succumbed to any such dire complaint as the Zanaian Blue Spluerg, as having seen an unfortunate savage that shewed the noxious affliction, I should imagine it unlikley that I should be able to continue my travels with my stomach turned outside in, and mine eyes receding into the confines of my skull only to erupt through my auditory canals with the loudest of popping sounds whereupon that individual was entirely exfluncticated. Quite ghastly.

I am most sorry to see that you write of your departure from the effervescent Mistress Wolport, however I am most gratified that you have elicited passage on that fine dirigible out of Liverpool in time to meet with my gift to you – how fortuitous that timing, wot? If I am not mistaken, Watty is correct (as usual) about the Rongorongo tablet, for he mentioned something of similar dealings to myself when we gave the lecture on Quirmic Idylls of the Rapa Nui-Vango Lui Peninsulae some five years past at the Academy. Be sure to enquire of him as to the Borogolola Isles’ savages’ histories, for I am sure (again) he shall have some excellent tidbits of information regarding Orongonese linguistics, which may have for the mean time slipped his busy and, not unlike his laboratories at the Club, rather crowded mind. I therefore urge you to seek out a Captain Risticus Geppering-Barclay, on arrival at the embarcation point and advise him you require board and lodgings at the Gentlemans’ Club, ‘Lo Horongo Gorongo’. It is of middling appointment though clean, but the man is more than capable of finding yourself and Watty a local guide at a good price and delay you with none of the bunkum with which the savages would otherwise advise you. They are a bunch of border ruffians, the Orongonese, and I advise you to be on your guard in a boodle, they have designs about your possessions – I lost a rather fetching pocket watch there once.

I am just now seated under canvas at the edge of the Barmaloogi ravine complex, near where Ferkin Bletchley-Middens encountered the Netrificus Dolden no more than a year ago – one sighting of this profoundly evasive critter will cap the climax, let me inform you! If I must return to our sceptered isle without a viewing of this creature, I shall be catawamptiously chewed up. I fear the scritching of my quill is a deafening sound in this quiet locale, thus I shall end here. I do, however, in parting, draw you attention to a most amusing typo on page 4590 of Simpleton’s Guide to Rongorongo, which gave me good cause to loosen my cravat and no mistake.

With affection, as ever,
Wilbur.